


I don't like you (but I love you)

by myfavouritesweater



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: (they're already sleeping with each other lets go with that), Established Relationship, M/M, but it could be any time really, kind of, set around s5 time i guess, they love each other but they're scared you know the drill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:20:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myfavouritesweater/pseuds/myfavouritesweater
Summary: Dennis loves Mac, but he doesn't know how to say it. It takes him a few tries to get it right.A chapter for each verse of the poem "8 Ways to Say I Love You" by R. McKinley.





	1. voicemail

**Author's Note:**

> (just to clarify, the first sentence says "mac is out", but i mean as in literally not at home, not out of the closet. coming out will be addressed in a later chapter)
> 
> 1\. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night’s clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.

Mac is out.

Mac is out with Charlie, and he won't be home until late, and Dennis is by himself.

He doesn't mind, not really, because they'll probably be out throwing rocks at dogs and sniffing glue in alleyways all goddamn night, and Dennis truly has no interest in wasting his life like that.

Except he misses Mac already, and it's only been twenty minutes.

He didn’t use to feel like this. Mac used to go out without him all the time, getting into increasingly fucked up situations with Charlie, and Dennis wouldn’t even bat an eye. In fact, he’d look forward to having an empty apartment for once, taking advantage of it in the only way he knew how.

But now he doesn’t want to bring a random girl home. He wants to go out, find out where his stupid friends are, and bring _Mac_ home.

Banging Mac was simultaneously the best and worst decision he had ever made, it seems.

He’s restless. He gets up, pours himself a drink, paces the living room for a while. He switches the channel for the sixth time since Mac left, flicking from an old re-run of _Seinfeld_ to _The Real Housewives of New Jersey_ , and he doesn’t feel any less unsettled. His hand darts to his phone, and he’s texted Dee to invite her over before he can stop himself.

By the time he’s opening the door to her, he’s on his fourth beer.

“Dee!” He cheers, ushering her in. She gives him a hard, skeptical look, but follows him to the couch anyway. “You want a beer?”

“Got any wine?”

He helps Dee drink through the three bottles of wine he manages to rustle up around the kitchen (although the majority of it finds its way into Dee’s chipped glass), and forces her to watch _Predator_  for the millionth time, even though he’d watched it with Mac last week.

The credits starts rolling, and Dennis is just thinking about switching DVDs when Dee starts shifting on the couch, bones popping noisily.

“I should probably get going,” She groans, struggling to heave herself up off the cushions.

Dennis flounders, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. 01:30. Mac won’t be back for another hour at least.

“You sure?” He says, squinting at her. She does look pretty awful. “You don’t want another drink?”

“Dennis, I can’t feel my legs,” She says, words garbled against her tongue.

He ignores her, electing to head to the kitchen and pour himself and his incapacitated sister a shot of (Mac’s) tequila. He misses the first tiny glass by an inch, slopping the golden liquid onto the table, and is forced to realise he’s really fucking shitfaced himself.

Doesn’t stop him from taking a shot right from the bottle, though.

He stumbles back into the living room to find Dee passed out on the couch, car keys dangling from her fingers. Probably best she didn’t leave, after all. He throws a blanket over her, snatching his cell phone off the table in the process, and staggers into his empty bedroom.

He’s actually really fucking tired now himself, but he now hates the idea of going to sleep without Mac, as awful as it sounds. He can’t remember when the line between fucking and _feelings_ had started to blur, but he’s pretty sure it was around the same time Mac had started sleeping exclusively in Dennis’ room.

He looks at the opposite side of his bed, sheets still crumpled from where Mac had lay until one o’clock in the fucking afternoon earlier that day, and feels an overwhelming _need_ for him.

He curses the tequila, still burning hot in his veins, and picks up his phone, fingers fumbling against the screen for far longer than he’s proud of.

It rings six, seven, eight times before it cuts to voicemail. Dennis feels an embarrassing urge to cry about it.

_When did this happen to him?_

“Hey-o, it’s Mac! Leave a message after the beep. Or don’t. I probably won’t listen to it.”

Dennis laughs under his breath, and waits for the tone.

_BEEP._

“Hey! Hey, buddy. It’s me. Just wonderin’ when you’d be back,” He slurs, voice low in case Dee hears. The room feels like it’s swirling around him. “Don’t miss you, or anything. I just don’t want to go t’sleep without you.”

He breathes for a moment, as if he’s waiting for Mac’s response. His eyes keep falling shut.

“Thought you’d be home by now,” He breathes, coughing a little. “I’m not jealous. Who’d be jealous of Charlie? I’m just really drunk, and - and I love you, man. I want you here. With me. Come home soon, please.”

He drops the phone onto his bed without ending the call, no doubt leaving an extra minute of white noise in Mac’s answer phone, and pulls the sheets up around him.

\---

When he wakes up, Mac’s asleep beside him, a possessive hand draped over his waist. He curls into the warm heat of his body with a grunt, head pounding, mouth dry.

“Mac,” He groans. Mac doesn’t stir. “ _Mac_.”

After several prods and a tentative kiss to his half-open mouth, Dennis accepts that Mac’s not waking up anytime soon, and certainly won’t be getting him a much needed glass of water in the next five minutes. He’ll have to do it himself.

He rolls out of Mac’s soft grip and plants his feet on the floor, stomach lurching dangerously. He almost lies back down, until he spots Mac’s phone on the bedside table, plugged in to charge, and -

Fuck.

He’d called Mac last night. Not just called him, but called him and told him he _loved_ him.

If he didn’t want to throw up before, he definitely does now.

He scrambles out of bed like a bullet, stumbling blindly out of his bedroom door and into the living room. Dee’s still there, sat up on the couch, squinting at the TV. She smirks at him.

“So Mac always sleeps in your room, huh?” She says.

“He sleeps in his own room,” Dennis snaps.

“Doesn’t look like he’s in there now,” She says, pointing at his open bedroom door, bed unoccupied and bare in the middle of the room. “But I definitely heard him come home last night.”

Dennis ignores her. He grabs a glass of water, ignoring his sister’s clamouring for a glass of her own, and throws himself down on the couch next to her. She starts talking to him, but he can barely hear her. He’s panicking, if he’s honest. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s going to say when Mac wakes up.

It’s an hour later, when he and Dee are halfway through their third episode of _The Office_ , that Mac emerges from Dennis bedroom, rubbing his eyes.

“Jesus _Christ_ , dude, I think I drank my body weight in beer last night,” He groans, making a beeline for the kitchen. He looks a little jumpy when he spots Dee on the couch, like he’s just been caught out, but she’s barely paying attention to him.

It’s Dennis who’s freaking out. He feels shaky, heart rate instantly spiking at the sound of Mac’s voice.

He plops himself down between the twins, grunting a reluctant _Good Morning_ to Dee. Dennis holds his breath.

But he doesn't say anything. Not when Dee leaves, not when they head to the bar together, not even when they make out on the couch after dinner.  

He doesn't say anything for weeks, until Dennis has forgotten all about it, too.


	2. exhalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.

“Mac?” Dennis calls, poking his head around the office doorway. 

Mac is sat at the opposite end of the bar, arguing with Charlie about who would be better in a fight against Da Maniac. Dee is watching fondly from beside Mac, laughing at whatever Charlie’s just said, and at Dennis’ word, they all turn to face him.

Mac’s eyes light up at the sight of him, just a little, and Dennis tries to swallow the swell of emotion that pops up in this throat. His hair is soft and fluffy, shirt still a little damp from the pouring rain outside, and Dennis has been aching to get his hands on him since they woke up this morning. Now’s his chance. 

“Yeah, Dennis?” 

“Can you come and help me back here, please?” He says, giving Mac what he hopes is a meaningful look. 

Mac frowns for a second, annoyed at being interrupted, but after another slight head tilt and a quirk of an eyebrow from Dennis, he's grinning, realisation flooding his features, and sliding off his stool. 

Dennis feels something like triumph in his veins as Mac marches towards him, ignoring the irritated look Charlie and Dee give him.

“Wait a second, Dennis,” Charlie says, shooting an arm out across the bar to halt Mac in his tracks.  “We’re kind of in the middle of something here. Can’t Dee help?”

Mac and Dennis exchange a quick, horrified look. 

“No, she absolutely cannot.” 

“Hey! You always underestimate me when it comes to the computer, you asshole,” She snaps, standing up from her stool. “Who was the one who got rid of that virus that kept eating files?”

“Who was the one who  _ got _ the virus from downloading porn?” Dennis retorts. 

Dee remains silent. She sits back down. 

“That’s what I thought,” He scoffs. “ _ You  _ can’t be trusted, Charlie doesn’t know how to read, and Frank is god knows where right now-”

“He’s in the sewers,” Charlie supplies loftily, something like resentment lacing his words. He looks at the floor. 

“Without you?” Dee asks.

“I don’t want to talk about it-” 

“Mac!” He barks, before they all get too involved. Mac’s already looking at Charlie, torn. “Now!”

It takes him another minute or so to get Charlie to shut up about his problems with Frank, but eventually gets Mac safely into the back office, away from distractions. He makes sure to flick the lock, not giving a shit if Charlie or Dee question his motives. 

He turns around to face Mac, only to find him already smirking at him, mischievous glint in his eye.

“You don’t  _ really _ need help with any orders, do you?” He says lowly, stepping towards Dennis.

“Wow, nothing gets past you, huh?” Dennis teases. He lets Mac pull him into his arms, press a kiss to his forehead.

“Shut up,” He says into Dennis’ hair. Dennis closes his eyes, leans into it like a dying man.

He doesn’t know why he has days like this. Some days, in some ways, he couldn’t give a shit about Mac. He likes knowing he’s around, obviously, but he isn’t clamouring after him. He has other things on his mind, stuff to tend to in the bar, and Mac’s going about his own day, too. They  _ do  _ function without each other, despite what Dee says, if needs be. 

But other days, like today, he can’t get enough of Mac. He could feel himself staring at him earlier when he was just standing around, laughing at all of his shitty jokes and finding excuses to touch him lightly. He tried to shut himself in the back office to get away from it, until thinking about him too much led to a half hard dick and a need to have Mac  _ now _ . 

He spins them around, lets Mac’s back thud against the solid door audibly, and presses a long kiss to his mouth. He grinds their crotches together, enough to get Mac interested, then pulls back.

“You look so good today,” He leers, raking his eyes up and down Mac’s body. When he looks back up, Mac’s smiling, eyebrows raised.

“I do?” He asks, genuine surprised. 

“Mhmm. You smell good too.”

“Gross, Dennis, you know I didn't shower this morning,” He says, wrinkling his nose. It doesn’t stop Dennis from pulling him closer, walking them both backwards until he’s perched on the edge of the desk, Mac situated between his parted thighs. 

“No point taking one this morning when you'll definitely need one tonight,” He hums. He wraps his arms around Mac’s waist, pulling him flush against his own body. He buries his head in Mac’s chest an inhales.

“Oh yeah?” 

When he looks up, Mac’s looking down at him, soft look in his eyes. He runs a hand over Dennis’ hair. 

It feels so natural, so comfortable that it gives Dennis that awful, sad feeling he hates, the one that forces him to realise he could have had this always, since the moment they met, if only he wasn’t so afraid of his own feelings.

He swallows it down, like always, and grins at Mac.

“If you play your cards right,” He says, wishing his voice didn’t sound so gentle. 

He leans in at the same time as Mac, their lips meeting in a soft, slow kiss that has Dennis wishing they were somewhere else, somewhere far away from his irritating sister and their cheese-stained best friend. 

He lets himself get swept up in it, despite the sound of rattling bottles and muffled yelling from the other side of the door, and opens his mouth to Mac, holding his stubbly cheeks between his hands. Mac makes the most incredible noises when Dennis’ kisses him like this, somewhere between a groan and a whine, pressing his fingers into Dennis’ waist. 

He doesn't even know how long they've been kissing, or if time is even still moving. He just knows that he can't get enough, and he doesn't know if he ever will. 

Mac lifts a hand from where he has it perched on Dennis’ waist to cradle the back of his skull, fingers stroking his hair lightly, possessively. Dennis falls into the touch, a breathy moan slipping into Mac's mouth, and he stumbles a little, slipping off the desk in an effort to get closer. 

Mac effortlessly pushes him back into place, lips never parting for a second, and arranges them so that one of his thighs is wedged in between Dennis’, like puzzle pieces.

He takes that moment to pull away from Dennis, lips shining and eyes dark, mouth open and poised to speak. Dennis whines and pulls him in again, latching his lips onto Mac’s neck, grinding his hips forward feverishly. 

" _ God _ , Dennis, what has gotten into you today?" He breathes, letting his head fall back. 

“You, hopefully,” Dennis grunts in response, shifting, desperate. 

He's hard, (has been for most of the day, for fuck’s sake) and he can already feel Mac’s insistent erection moving rhythmically against his thigh. If he's honest with himself, he’d be perfectly happy to keep going like this until he came in his pants, but he also wants  _ more _ . 

“Touch me,” He gasps, gripping the back of Mac’s shirt so tightly he's surprised it doesn't tear. “Mac, touch me.”

He lunges for Mac’s hand and places it over his crotch insistently, thrusting shallowly into his open palm. He looks up at Mac with wild eyes, lips parted and panting, and that's all Mac needs to start working on his zipper. 

When Mac takes him in his hand, Dennis groans, long and loud. He loves putting on a show for Mac. 

“Shut up, dude!” Mac snaps, shooting a cursory glance over his shoulder, as if Charlie and Dee could have somehow magically appeared behind him. 

When he looks back at Dennis, he can see the familiar thrill in his eye, the look that says he gets off on risk just as much as as Dennis does. 

“I can't help it,” Dennis breathes, only half lying. 

“Seriously dude, keep it down. We’re gonna get caught,” He says. 

“Caught with my dick in your hand,” Dennis whispers back, but he does quieten down.

Mac groans at his words and starts jacking him off in earnest as Dennis makes soft keening noises on purpose, right into Mac’s ear.

He lets all kinds of shit leave his mouth when Mac touches him, always does. Most of it’s incoherent praise, stuff that wouldn’t make sense if he heard it back the next day, or filthy words that make Mac flush to the tips of his ears. Sometimes, when Mac is inside him, hot and frantic and  _ so close _ , he just pants and whines, moans so loud the walls shake, cries out until the entire apartment building knows what they’re up to.

“You’re -  _ fuck  _ \- that's so good, man,” Dennis gasps, encouraging. 

“You like that?”

Dennis nods, canting his hips up into Mac’s tight fist. He screws his eyes shut, chasing the friction with his lips pinched between his teeth. 

“You look beautiful like this,” Mac babbles. 

“Yeah?”

“Mm. All desperate and shit.”

“I'm not desperate,” Dennis lies, and Mac smirks. He releases his grip around Dennis’ dick for a second, and the urgent groan that falls from his lips immediately proves that he  _ is _ . 

“You love it,” Mac teases, eyes dark. 

_ I love you _ , he thinks, and  _ fuck _ . 

Since he spat it out on the phone that one time, it seems to spring up in his head daily, loud and insistent every time Mac so much as smiles at him. Most of the time, it's in passing, enough to make his heart jump but not enough to make him  _ say  _ it, but today, it's too intense. 

It's like a mantra, burning his tongue as Mac dives in to kiss him, stinging his lips when they break apart. 

It's fucking ridiculous that he feels like this (he's only getting a handjob, for god’s sake). He's not even returning the favour, too busy white-knuckling the back of Mac’s shirt like an idiot, trying not to blow his load too soon like a fucking virgin. 

Mac gives him all the feelings he’d craved and feared as a teenager, like everything they do is new and exciting, like fireworks are exploding underneath his skin every time they do anything so much as kiss. 

“You close?” Mac asks, as if he doesn't already know. Dennis is fucking  _ writhing _ against him, moaning and huffing between kisses. 

“Mac,” is all he chokes out, falling from his lips like a prayer.

Mac responds by kissing him harder, cradling Dennis’ head with his free hand. 

It's all too much,trying to stay quiet for Mac in the back office, holding him tight in his favourite place in the whole world. Sometimes, and especially on his bad days, he thinks that if he could just keep Mac and the bar forever, that's all he'd need. 

That’s probably what he wants to tell Mac, when all his feelings come bubbling to the surface like this. Kind of wants to commit his life to him.

The thought sends him reeling.

“I love you,” He breathes feverishly instead, shuddering against Mac. It’s barely audible, more of a sigh than anything, but he feels hot embarrassment wash over him instantly.

Mac doesn’t seem to notice, lips pressing into Dennis’ over and over, hand still working relentlessly. He feels overwhelmed by it all (half wants to say it again, louder this time) and comes with Mac’s name on his lips. 

He’s still blushing furiously when Charlie starts banging on the door. They don't let him in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not entirely happy with this chapter but I've written and rewritten it so many times that i just want to get it published at this point! stay with me, the next chapter should (hopefully!) be a little better!


	3. dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3\. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that’s what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you’ve always known.

“Monthly dinner, baby!” Mac yells as he steps out onto the street, slipping on the ice underfoot a little. Winter’s just dropped into Philly in full force, and Dennis would be mad about it if he didn’t look so damned good in a scarf.

“Be careful, asshole,” Dennis says affectionately, following him out to the car. “You are not allowed to die before we get to this restaurant.”

“What, Guiginos?”

“No, not _Guiginos_ ,” Dennis says distastefully, as if they haven’t classed that place as the finest of dining for the past 10 years. He climbs into the Range Rover, parked loyally (yet illegally) on the curb outside their building, and slams the door.

A few seconds pass as Mac heads around the outside of the car, and then he’s wrenching the door open and sliding into the passenger side.

“Then where?” He asks, clicking his seatbelt.

“You’ll find out when we get there. You think I'd ask you to get all dressed up for Guiginos?”

Mac looks down at his body. Beneath his beat up old coat, he's wearing a crisp white shirt for the first time, rather than his faded grey polo, and a pale green tie Dennis helped him pick out last week. Dennis is dressed similarly, if not a little fancier.

“I guess not,” Mac shrugs.

“You look really good, by the way,” Dennis says, starting up the car. He leans back in his seat before pulling off, checking Mac out. “Very sexy.”

“I do?”

“Mhmm.”.

Dennis, who has apparently gone soft as shit, let’s Mac slide his own CD into the stereo, and soon enough the car is filled with some moody, guitar-heavy shit. He starts drumming the steering wheel absent mindedly.

“You like it?” Mac says beside him. Dennis turns to look at him, and he's smiling hopefully.

“Huh?” Dennis says. “Oh, the song? No.”

Mac looks at him like he doesn't believe him.

“Dennis, it’s Creed,” He says, as though that’s supposed to change anything.

“I know.”

“But you said you liked them the other day,” Mac argues. Dennis scoffs.

“When?” He asks.

“When we...y’know?”

_Oh_.

When Dennis blasted whatever was in the CD player last week when they pulled into an empty parking lot to fuck in the back seat. He vaguely remembers Mac asking him if he'd chosen the song on purpose, and Dennis, too wrapped up in the moment, had said yes because he ‘liked this one’.

_Well, shit._

“Oh. Well, I don’t like this particular song,” He says smoothly, nodding along. “I liked the one from the other day.”

This seems to appease Mac, who smiles and looks out the window.

Dennis wonders when this happened to him, when the very idea of upsetting Mac became frightening to him. Probably around the same time he bought the stupid flowers and tray of fancy chocolates he’d subtly placed on Mac’s side of the bed, for him to find when they get home later.

He doesn't really know how to prove his love without material things. The guy at the florist told him that the bouquet he picked out symbolises love and trust. Dennis was too flustered to tell him to shove it.

He turns the music up to drown out the sound of his thumping heart, and prays that he can get through the next few hours unscathed.

\---

Dennis glances around the restaurant, and then over at Mac, and surprisingly, they don't look _too_ out of place. Neither of them have managed to stain their clothes yet, thank god, and they seem to be blending in quite well.

The restaurant is a five star joint, with a critically acclaimed chef and decor that wouldn’t look out of place in ritzy period drama. It’s beautiful, eye-wateringly expensive, and Dennis even splashed out on a table with an impressive view out over the Schuylkill. He doesn’t know if Mac’s even been to this part of town before.

It reminds him of the places he was forced to go to as a kid, when Frank and Barbara would drag him and Dee along like accessories, forcing them into tight, itchy outfits when they'd have much rather been at home with Mac and Charlie. He hated those nights.

Dennis has always just wanted to be with _Mac_ , it seems.

“Swanky place, Dennis,” Mac says. He’s fiddling with the edge of the table cloth. “Why'd you choose it?”

“I can't push the boat out for our monthly dinner once in a while?” Dennis teases, hoping he doesn't sound as on edge as he feels.

Dennis knows exactly why he chose it. If he's going to blurt out those three cursed little words again, he's going to do it somewhere memorable, somewhere _right._

If all those 90s romantic comedies he binged have taught him anything, it’s that you tell someone you love them, you have to bring them to places like this. You need all the grand gestures. You don’t tell them drunk ( _well_ , not super drunk), you don’t tell them when you’re on the receiving end of an (admittedly average) handjob.

You tell them with flowers in your hands, with champagne on the table, and with candles flickering in your eyes.

The flowers might be at home, but the candles are here. The champagne can be ordered. He takes a deep breath and tries to relax, to focus on the evening and on Mac, on what he’s really here for.

When he looks down, the menu is all in French, printed in looped, italic font that makes it even harder to comprehend. He has a loose understanding, just enough to pick out a basic veal dish, but Mac is obviously struggling.

“Need some help?” He says gently.

“Nah, I'm good,” Mac lies.

He smiles at Dennis over the rim of this menu, but it fails to reach his eyes. He goes back to frowning as he scans the menu. Dennis swallows.

When the waiter comes over to take their order, Mac ends up mumbling incoherently as he points to something on the menu. He looks embarrassed, and the waiter smiles, winking at Dennis.

“French isn’t for everyone,” He says jovially.

“Hey, he’s trying his best, asshole,” Dennis snaps, sneering at the waiter. The guy has the nerve to keep smiling, albeit nervously, which annoys him more than he’d care to admit.

“And for you, sir?” He says, turning to Dennis.

“I'll take the veal,” He says pompously, snatching Mac’s menu up and passing the two back to the waiter. “And two bottles of your finest champagne.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Two?” He repeats. Dennis scowls at him.

“We’re men, not Barbie dolls,” He snaps. “What are you still here for? Go.”

The waiter leaves with a curt nod, and Mac gives Dennis an uneasy smile. For beat, it’s awkward. Dennis’ throat seizes.

“So, I, uh, missed you today,” He says, a little awkward, voice low.

Mac blushes ever so slightly, glancing around a little. A flushed, happy smile appears on his face.

“You did?” Mac says, raising an eyebrow.

Mac had been out all day with Dee, of all people, trying to hunt down a record player under the bridge after finding a bunch of vinyls in one of Charlie’s closets. Mac and Charlie wanted to use them as plates, but Dee wouldn’t stop talking about the _potential_ , and dragged Mac along with her.

“Mhmm,” He nods. He shifts in his chair, leans forward, towards Mac. “Sat in the bar all by myself, _all_ day. Nothing to do.”

“Charlie and Frank weren’t there?” Mac asks, frowning.

“What? No, yeah. They were there,” He says, waving a dismissive hand in the air, “But I don’t want to spend the day with Charlie and Frank.”

“Why not?”

Dennis just stares at Mac.

“Because I want to spend the day with you, dumbass.”

“Oh,” Mac says, genuinely surprised. “ _Dennis_. That’s so cute.”

“Alright, alright,” He grins, rolling his eyes. Mac is practically glowing opposite him.

“I wish I was with you today, too,” He gushes. “Dee kept making all these jokes and, okay, some of them were pretty funny, but other than that it was torture.”

“God, tell me about it. Last week she spoke in a Borat accent for 45 minutes straight, it was so embarrassing.”

She was actually being hilarious, and the two of them had a good laugh, but he wouldn’t admit that to Mac. It would throw off the group dynamic.

But instead of agreeing, or even laughing, Mac looks disappointed.

“Oh,” He says quietly.

“What?”

“It’s just-” He pauses, sighs. “You always laugh when I do it. Are you faking?”

“No! No, I like it when you do it,” He says gently, resting a hand atop Mac’s on the tablecloth. “Mac, you always make me laugh.”

It’s just at that moment that their waiter appears again, same irritating grin on his face.

“Sorry to interrupt,” He says, setting up the ice buckets by their table, gleaming bottle in each. “Your champagne.”

“Thank you, Chester,” Dennis says without looking at him.

“It’s Chase.”

“I don’t care.”

\---

The evening flows by gently, with little interruption from their perma-happy waiter and plenty of champagne. Dennis even starts to relax a little bit, and stops tugging at his tie and shifting in his seat every two seconds. 

He finds himself getting close to telling Mac how he feels multiple times, especially right after he laughs, or when he bitches about something they both hate, but every time, he falls flat.

He trips up on his own words and ends up spitting out something weak, too starved of breath to be meaningful enough. It's frustrating and embarrassing, even if Mac can't tell its happening. 

“Your food okay?” He asks, five minutes after it's served to them. He takes a bite of his own meal, chewing over the meat. It’s too soft, too tender. Not what he wanted.

“Yeah, really good,” Mac nods. He pauses, studying Dennis' face softly for a moment.  “Thank you for bringing me here. It's really, really beautiful.”

“No problem,” He smiles.

“No, um. I mean it.”

He swallows, puts his knife and fork down. He folds his hands in his lap, twisting them nervously. Dennis' eyebrows knit together, confused. 

“I - I know we’re, like, something more than we used to be, and this whole monthly dinner thing is a bigger deal now," Mac says. "I just - wanted to say thanks, I guess, for taking it seriously, and, uh. For taking _me_ seriously.”

Dennis sits up in his chair. 

_Holy shit. He’s going to say it first. He’s going to fucking do it._

“I’ve always taken you seriously, Mac,” He says honestly.

“I know, it’s just-” He pauses, and takes a deep breath. “I guess I’ve been worried you’d D.E.N.N.I.S. me, as embarrassing as that sounds.”

_Fuck_.

Dennis clears his throat, tugs at his tie a bit. His chest _hurts_. He reaches across the table for Mac’s hand.

“Look, Mac, I-”

“Wait! Holy shit, is that Cole Hamels?” Mac hisses, his own hand beating Dennis to the punch as it shoots out to grip his wrist, and the entire mood is instantly changed. Dennis stops, appalled, and squints at him.

“ _What_?”

“Cole Hamels!” Mac repeats, craning his neck to peer across the restaurant . “The pitcher for-”

“I know who Cole Hamels is!” He snaps. _God_ , he can’t catch a break. 

“Hey, don’t get pissy with me, dude.”

“I’m not!” He insists rather loudly, drawing a few incredulous looks from their fellow diners. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and repeats, much lower this time, “I’m not.”

“Should we go say hi?” Mac says, ignoring him.

“No, we most definitely should not.”

“I think we - oh! He’s standing up.”

“Great.”

“I’m gonna wave,” Mac announces. He’s squirming around in his chair now, drawing even more unwanted attention. “I’m gonna call him over. HEY! Hey! Cole - oh, shit. That’s not him.”

He shrinks back into his seat, bringing an obvious hand up to cover his face. The guy thankfully doesn’t turn to look at him, but the good half of the restaurant staring at them instead make up for it. Dennis feels his fingernails digging into his palms before he even realises what he’s doing.

“What a surprise,” He grunts, forcing them open again.

_Don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene._

“Aw, man, it really looked like him!” Mac insists. “I was really hyped up for a moment.”

“I know.”

“Can you imagine?”

“Mac, we’re trying to have a nice dinner, hm?” Dennis says, forced. He knows his smile is strained, unfriendly, but he can’t help it. Mac gives him an odd look. “And so is everyone else here.”

Mac glances around at the numerous parties staring at him, some amused, some clearly annoyed. He shrugs, and Dennis feels his blood boil.

“Sorry if I, like, embarrassed you, or whatever.”

He can't lose his shit, not now. Not after they've already managed to draw the attention of half the patrons to them twice already. Not after he's spent all night trying to tell Mac how he feels. He’s still got time. He could still pull it together.

He breathes. He tries to remember what this whole night is for.

“You didn’t embarrass me, it’s fine,” He lies through gritted teeth.

“But-”

“I said it's fine, Mac.”

They go back to eating, in silence this time. The mutters that surrounded them grow to a halt, the guy who looks like Cole Hamels leaves the restaurant, and Dennis takes another bite of his veal. It tastes like rubber.

He can feel the familiar thrum of anger failing to subside, mixed with something that feels an awful lot like the desperate urge to cry. He wanted this night to be perfect. He got all dressed up, drove the two of them out here, spent (quite honestly) excessive amounts of money on flowers and chocolates and shit to surprise Mac when they get home, and yet it all feels so _wrong_.

He drops his fork to his plate with a clatter. Mac looks up at him.

“You wanna get out of here?” He says. Mac’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“What?”

“This isn't us,” Dennis sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I can't stand this place. The waiter keeps looking at us like we’re trash and this meat tastes like shit. I'd be much happier at home with a beer and a fucking Chinese takeout.”

Mac just stares for a moment.

“Are you serious?” He asks.

“Deadly.”

“Fuck, Dennis, I never thought you'd ask. I hate it here,” Mac breathes, leaning back in his chair like a weight’s been lifted. “I hate salad. I didn't mean to order it, I couldn't read the menu.”

“I know, baby.”

Mac grins at him.

“Let’s go,” He says. He jumps up from the table, and holds a hand out to Dennis expectantly.

He looks at the hand for a moment, and then up to Mac’s face.

Mac isn’t even looking at him. He’s already scanning the restaurant for the quickest way out, and it throws Dennis off. Mac isn’t thinking about it at all, he's doing it like it’s instinct, like it’s just natural for them to hold hands everywhere they go now.

Dennis doesn’t think twice. He tosses a crumpled stack of twenty dollar bills onto the table and slips his hand into Mac’s. Mac’s fingers tighten around his own, he grabs the unopened champagne bottle from the ice bucket, and they weave through the gilded tables hand in hand, ignoring the nervous yells from their waiter.

“Money's on the table,” Dennis shouts back, ignoring the mass of heads that have turned to watch them leave. “And just a heads up; you're not getting a tip.”

Mac's laughing, breathless when they step out into the night. It's colder than it was earlier, it seems. They left their coats in the car.

Dennis stops and yanks Mac towards him.

“I'm not drunk enough to be stood out here in just a shirt, bro,” Mac shivers, but he let’s Dennis pull him in.

He kisses him, full on the mouth, out there in the snow with countless eyes gawking at them through the window. Mac leans into him eagerly, eyes fluttering shut, and Dennis thanks god for small victories like this. 

He didn't manage to say it tonight, but he felt it, stronger and more insistent than ever when Mac held his hand. It was an affirmation for him, of sorts, that Mac is serious about this too. They might not be able to vocalise it, but this isn't just fucking anymore.

Mac's words echo in his head. _Thank you for taking this seriously._

He drives home with Mac singing on the passenger side, a heavy hand resting on his thigh the whole way.


	4. sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you’ve counted the space between her breaths and are certain she’s asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering.

3 weeks later, Dennis is about as sick as he’s ever been.

His head is pounding. His throat is raw. His vision is blurry. 

His nose has been running since the minute he woke up, and the amount of tissues piled up on the desk in the back office has to be some kind of health code violation. He’s been snoozing in there with the door locked since 11am, and only jolts into consciousness when the loud banging of insistent fists starts shaking the room. 

“Wha…?”

“Dennis, open the fucking door.”

It’s Mac, because of  _ course _ it’s Mac. It was Mac who told him to stay home this morning. It was Mac who made him put on an extra sweater before they left the apartment, because if he was going to insist on going into work, he was going to be wrapped up. 

Dennis squints at the heavy wooden door just a few feet away from him, and contemplates for a moment whether it would be more worthwhile just to let Mac break it off its hinges. He really does feel like shit. 

But then Charlie’s muffled yells are added to the mix, followed by Dee’s, and eventually Frank’s, and Dennis is forced to heave himself up out of his chair, if only to shut them up. 

He unlocks the door with trembling hands, sniffing all the while, and swings it open to find the rest of the gang staring at him in horror. 

“Sorry,” He grunts. “The lock is broken.”

(It’s not. He used the same excuse last week when he and Mac locked themselves in there for 2 hours. He’ll use it again next week, when he’s healthy again and wants Mac to fuck him over the desk at 3pm.)

“Jesus Christ,” Dee mumbles, 

“You look like you’ve already died, dude,” Charlie says quietly, wincing.

“I feel fine,” He spits, glaring at them. 

“I’m taking you home,” Mac says after one look at him, shaking his head. “You look awful.”

“I look  _ fine _ ,” He snaps, swaying a little on the spot. 

Mac pushes past him anyway, striding into the back office to grab his coat and car keys. Dennis rolls his eyes and steps behind the bar, leaning against the stained wood for support. God, the room is spinning.

“Dennis, you’re sick as a dog,” Frank frowns, now taking a seat opposite him. He’s smoking a cigarette, for the first time in god knows how long, because of  _ course _ he is - on the day Dennis feels like his lungs are about to give out, Frank has taken up smoking again.

“I don't get sick,” Dennis coughs, rubbing his temple. He tries and fails to smack the cigarette out of Frank’s hand. 

“Yes you do. You're sick right now,” Mac argues, emerging from the office. He holds Dennis’ coat out for him, shaking it a little when he doesn’t immediately step forward to put it on. 

“I am not,” He insists. 

“Stop being a bitch and come put your coat on.”

“ _ No _ .” 

“Dennis,” He warns. 

They’re drawing unwanted attention from Frank, and now Charlie and Dee on either side of him, who are looking between the two of them with fascinated interest. Dennis forces himself to stomp down to the other end of the bar, Mac hot on his tail.

“You can't tell me what to do,” He hisses. “If I say I'm fine, I'm fine.”

“You were just asleep in the back office!” Mac cries. 

“And I'm  _ fine _ now!”

_ Jesus Christ _ , he thinks. If he says “fine” one more time his head might actually explode. 

“Come on. For me, man,” Mac says gently, finally cornering him. He steps, slips a hand around his waist to rub his lower back. “I'll take you home and run you a hot bath, make you some soup, hmm?”

Blocked by the bulk of Dennis’ coat tossed over his forearm, the rest of the gang can’t see Mac touching him, and Dennis is momentarily distracted. His back aches  _ so much _ , not to mention the rest of his body, and he finds himself leaning into the touch before he can stop himself. He wants nothing more than to fall into it, to be coddled by Mac, but he forces himself to step away. 

“Thanks for the offer, Mary Poppins, but no thanks,” He sneers. 

“C’mon, man. My mom used to do that for me when I was a kid, and I always felt better.”

“When did your mom ever even show interest in you, let alone care about you?”

Across the bar, Charlie and Frank stop chatting. Dee breathes in sharply, holding her breath. 

“Hey, she cares about me!” Mac yells instantly, pointing an accusatory finger at Dennis. Dennis almost smiles at how predictable he is, how easy it is to push Mac’s buttons to get his own way. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Dennis says dismissively.

“She was a great mom!” He continues, face growing red. “She always made me soup, right, Charlie?”

Charlie, alarmed at being involved, glances at Dee with terrified eyes. She shrugs helplessly, mouth goldfishing around words neither of them can find. 

“Uh-”

“I came over to yours for dinner once and she gave us bologna sandwiches,” Dennis scoffs. 

Mac’s eyes widen, incredulous. He looks angry and  _ hurt _ , and Dennis doesn’t know why he can’t stop. God, his feet ache. His eyes are watering. 

“ _ So _ ?”

“So you used to come to mine and eat a gourmet fucking meal every week!” He snaps, voice cracking. 

“I'm sorry I was poor growing up!”

“You were poor because your parents are lazy and disgusting!”

The silence in the bar is deafening. Even the barflies stop grunting to one another, all of them turning to face the two men at the far end of the room.

Dennis knows he’s gone too far. The guilt settles into his bloodstream almost immediately, extinguishing any anger previously running riot. He holds Mac’s gaze. 

He doesn’t even look angry. The emotion slips from his face. His fists unclench. If anything, he looks  _ tired _ . Dennis has known Mac long enough to know that this is worse than any insult he could scream at him, worse than any punch he could throw. 

He just keeps staring at Dennis, his mouth in a cold, flat line. 

“Go get in the car,” He says flatly. 

Dennis doesn’t argue. 

\---

Later, after everything that’s happened, after the promised hot bath and some tepid chicken soup, Mac silently helps Dennis settle into bed. He's barely said two words to him since the moment they left the bar. 

He sits Dennis up, firm hand supporting his back as he uses the other to fluff his pillows. Dennis looks up at the concentration on Mac’s face, blinking slowly, a surge of affection rushing through him. Mac’s doing everything he can to be gentle, to be kind to Dennis despite how awful Dennis has been to him. 

“I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean it,” He says quietly. 

Mac ignores him. He rests him down again gently, pulling the blankets up over his pale chest, and then stands back, hands on his hips. He scans the room for a second, noting the water on the nightstand and TV remote in arms reach, and then looks back at Dennis.

“You need anything else?” He asks, blunt. 

“I’m sorry,” He repeats. 

“I don’t want to argue with you when you’re sick, Dennis,” he sighs, rubbing an exhausted hand over his eyes. “Stop saying sorry, we can talk about it tomorrow, or whatever.”

“You sure?” 

“Yeah.”

There's a beat, where neither of them say anything, air thick with tension. The TV hums monotonously in the corner. 

“You can sleep in the other room, if you want,” He sniffs. 

They don't even refer to it as Mac’s room anymore, it's just always the  _ other _ room. Dennis can't remember the last time Mac slept in there, or even went in to do anything, other than lift weights and jump rope. Most of his clothes have found their way into Dennis’ closet. There's a framed picture of Poppins sat on his dresser. 

Once, Mac referred to it as the spare room, and Dennis didn't even blink. It didn't ever occur to him that it wasn't anything other than a spare room. He thinks it was the around the same time he accidentally referred to his own room as  _ our room _ , and Mac smiled so wide Dennis had to look away. 

Mac isn’t smiling today, though. He just looks at him for a long moment, unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he shakes his head. 

“Nah, I’d rather be in here with you,” He grunts reluctantly, as if he's annoyed with himself, as though he can't resist. 

Dennis will never admit to the heavy relief that settles into his chest.

-

Mac falls asleep pretty quickly, despite the fact Dennis keeps barking out sharp, hacking coughs. 

He’s lying a little way away from him, flat on his back, not curling into him like usual, and Dennis knows it’s because he’s sick, and because they’re fighting, but he still can’t push down the disappointment that curls around his heart. 

Plus, Dennis usually falls asleep first. He doesn’t like being awake on his own. 

He briefly considers waking Mac up, whether it be through a timely, extra-loud cough, or just by shaking him violently, but the thought fades from his mind as he gets a real look at Mac’s face.

Mac is so often emotional, so often caught up in something that distresses him, that he almost looks like a different person when he's asleep. There's no frown line between his brows, no curl in his lip. 

_ He's pretty when he sleeps _ , Dennis thinks,  _ with his face all smoothed out like that _ . 

But then he considers the opposite end of the spectrum, when Mac’s face is lit up with happiness, or soft with affection. 

He sighs, like a fucking idiot, and adds rather reluctantly,  _ he's pretty all the time.  _

Mac mumbles something incoherent, a habit that usually drives Dennis insane on the nights when he can't sleep, but tonight, he finds himself endeared. A tiny frown appears on his face, gone as soon as it came, and then he's just breathing again. 

Dennis blames the NyQuil when he silently wonders if Mac is dreaming about him. 

“Mac,” He whispers, after a while. He doesn't stir. “Mac?”

He remains still beside him, deep breaths unwavering, eyelashes fanned out against his soft cheeks. He pouts in his sleep. It's one of Dennis’ favourite things about him. 

He counts the pauses between each of Mac’s breaths, listening until he’s sure they’re evenly spaced. He needs Mac to be out cold for this. He doesn’t want him to hear it, even distantly. He’s not going to waste it on an apology. 

Mac keeps breathing, slow and steady. Dennis inches towards him, reaching up hesitantly to stroke his soft hair. He likes it best like this, with no gel in it, with nothing to hold it back. It’s still a little damp from the shower, falling in soft, feathery tufts across his forehead.

“Thank you for looking after me,” He whispers, “I'm so, so sorry for what I said. I love you.”

For a moment, the world is silent. His words hang heavy in the air, untouched and glittering, until Mac inhales deeply, eyelids flickering.

Dennis’ heart drops into his stomach. 

He doesn’t have time to roll over, to hide himself from view. He panics and shuts his eyes instead, trying to relax his body into a believable position. 

He's still got one hand awkwardly resting atop Mac’s hair, falling lax so that it's now almost cradling his face, but it's too risky to pull it back now.

(Plus, it's not like they haven't woken up like this before.)

For five long, painful seconds, Mac doesn't say anything. Dennis isn't even sure if he's actually woken up, or if it was all just in his mind, until - 

“Den?” He mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He sounds soft and concerned. “Dennis? You okay?”

Dennis keeps his eyes firmly shut, and tries to breathe in heavy, even lengths. 

He lies painfully still as Mac gently lifts Dennis’ hand away from his face, and places it back on the sheets between the two of them. He doesn't let go, though. Just keeps his hand resting over Dennis’, protective, blind in the dark and half asleep, even after everything Dennis said today. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ahh i don't know if someone has already written fic for this poem before for mac/dennis so i hope i'm not stepping on anyone's toes!! anyway hope you enjoyed ;)


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